


rid of the desire

by youcouldmakealife



Series: if all is enough [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ulf doesn’t take sex seriously. Ulf has never taken sex seriously, not the prospect of it or the meaning of it or the act itself. The best sex partners he’s had were the ones who were comfortable, could share an unselfconscious laugh, didn’t take themselves too seriously. Who’d banish any of the potential awkwardness with a grin or a giggle.</p>
<p>Ulf had never really figured Rousseau for the type who would be anything but serious, and he’s right about that, but to be fair, right now he doesn’t feel like laughing either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rid of the desire

While Rousseau can carve a path through a packed bar with intensity alone, Ulf gets waylaid a couple of times--two of the rookies trying to draw him into a bet over socks or something similarly ridiculous, Fernando asking whether he could wingman so he could talk to the cute redhead at the end of the bar (Ulf gently declines), Travis complimenting him on a take-away in the second that may well have saved a breakaway, a goal. 

By the time he makes it outside, he half thinks that Rousseau will have disappeared, given up on waiting for him, and he isn’t truly sure whether he’d prefer that. It’d likely be for the better.

But Rousseau’s still out there, in just his suit despite the fact it’s at most fifteen degrees outside (Canadians and their stubborn insistence that they do not feel the cold). It’s started snowing since they all went inside, and Rousseau’s got snow dusting his shoulders, clinging to his hair. Looking at him feels like a blow, low in the gut, enough to wind him, and if Ulf was smart he’d tell Rousseau this was stupid, go back inside, maybe help Fernando pretend to have some game, settle that sock bet, whatever it is.

He doesn’t do that. Of course he doesn’t. He walks up to Rousseau, stands close enough their shoulders brush. A snowflake lands on Rousseau’s nose, sits there for a split second, melts against the heat of his skin. Ulf wants to punch himself in the face.

Rousseau looks over at him for a second, then walks over to a waiting cab without saying anything. Ulf follows, slides in after him. 

“Yours or--” Ulf starts, winces, because it sounds like the most ridiculously trite come on in the world, even though there’s no doubt that’s where this is going.

“Yours,” Rousseau says, abrupt, and Ulf gives the cabbie his address. There’s no more talk forthcoming, to his utter lack of surprise, and it’s a silent, tense, thankfully fairly short ride, where Ulf watches the line of Rousseau’s clenched jaw while Rousseau pretends he doesn’t notice Ulf looking.

Ulf pays when they arrive at his building, and they don’t say anything in the elevator, not when Ulf’s unlocking his door, not when they get inside and Rousseau immediately takes his shoes off like every knee-jerk polite Canadian Ulf has ever met. Ulf’s used to the silence from Rousseau, the tension, but in his apartment, with no pretense of disinterest from either of them, it sits wrong, makes him feel like he’s taking advantage.

“Look,” Ulf says, “This is a bad idea. We should just--I’m not kicking you out or anything, we could--I’m sure there’s still a game on or something, or you could tell me every way I fucked up tonight, that should be fun--” He’s babbling. He never babbles. It’s mortifying.

“Shut up,” Rousseau says, and Ulf cuts himself off without thinking about it, because that’s a command voice, and he obeys those instinctively. “Just--shut up, Larsson,” Rousseau says, a hitch in his voice that Ulf hasn’t heard before, and Ulf can’t do anything but obey, because Rousseau’s leaning in to kiss him.

His lips are cold, despite the drive, but his mouth is hot when Ulf surges forward, slides his tongue in Rousseau’s mouth, a hand curving around the back of his neck, settling on his hip below his suit jacket. Ulf doesn’t know how he expected Rousseau would kiss--tentative probably, restrained, unpracticed and a little sweet--but it isn’t anything like that. He kisses with the narrow-eyed intensity he watches a game, the unrestrained brutal tenacity he’d had on the ice, that had defensemen scrambling after, Ulf flirting in the hopes of saving his team from a nigh inevitable loss. There’s nothing sweet about it, and maybe Ulf was stupid to think there would be, stupid to think that he’d be able to keep anything approaching distance when he got all of Rousseau’s laserbeam focus on him, and not across a room, no carefully cultivated space between them, but with Rousseau’s hand a fist in his hair, the good side of painful, Rousseau’s teeth in his lip, Rousseau’s thigh between his legs, and it’s all Ulf can do to keep from rutting against it like a horny fucking teenager fighting blue balls.

Ulf pulls back, just far enough that Rousseau, making a frustrated noise and chasing his mouth, can’t reach, mumbles “Bed,” back against Rousseau’s mouth again, because he doesn’t want the distance either, but he also doesn’t think it’s the best idea to fuck in his front hall. Hardwood floors are unforgiving.

Rousseau huffs, which is strangely endearing in a way Ulf refuses to think about, but he lets Ulf guide him to his room, the practiced blind maneuvering that gets him to his room no matter how distracting Rousseau’s mouth is, Rousseau’s palm splayed where Ulf’s shirt’s been rucked up, tugged from his pants. Ulf pulls back, nudging Rousseau away when he grabs for him, and Rousseau lets him once he realizes Ulf’s unbuttoning his shirt, starts on his own after a long moment, and it’s the weirdest, most silently intense stripping Ulf has ever experienced, more like competition than sex.

Ulf doesn’t take sex seriously. Ulf has never taken sex seriously, not the prospect of it or the meaning of it or the act itself. The best sex partners he’s had were the ones who were comfortable, could share an unselfconscious laugh, didn’t take themselves too seriously. Who’d banish any of the potential awkwardness with a grin or a giggle.

Ulf had never really figured Rousseau for the type who would be anything but serious, and he’s right about that, but to be fair, right now he doesn’t feel like laughing either, as absurd as it is, the two of them a foot away from each other, methodically stripping like they’re in the dressing room. Rousseau’s still got the body of a hockey player, broad shoulders, thick thighs, the slight padding every player puts on during the offseason so they don’t lose all their muscle mass throughout the season, while Ulf’s been shedding weight despite his best efforts. The body of someone who’s still conditioning, retired only in name, and Ulf bets if they went one-on-one on the ice Rousseau would beat him by an embarrassing margin.

“What do you want?” Ulf says, and he doesn’t care about the answer, he’s willing for anything, up to and including ‘everything’. 

What Rousseau wants is Ulf’s mouth, and Ulf isn’t flattering himself when he says it’s a good one, because he wants to be good at the things he likes, and he loves this, getting his mouth on someone, learning what they like, free of any hesitation, anything but knee-jerk sensation. Literally, in this case, because Rousseau’s uncut, sensitive enough at the head of his cock that Ulf takes it easy, slow, a gentle suck while he keeps Rousseau still with a hand tight around the base of his cock, arm draped over the cut of his hip, not that Rousseau strikes him as the kind of guy to shove up at the first opportunity.

Not the kind of guy to make a lot of noise either, and that was the correct impression, though the noises he does, involuntary, almost hurt sounding, pushed past his teeth like they’ve been torn out of him, are dizzyingly hot, enough that Ulf’s half tempted to rub off against the sheets, pre-come on his tongue, face buried between Rousseau’s thighs, with the reluctant noises and Rousseau’s thigh muscles jumping as Ulf reaches down to gently toy with his balls, tight in his hand. Might actually have gotten there, the friction of soft sheets and Rousseau all he can smell, taste, overwhelming, but Rousseau attempts to shove him back by the shoulder, which he duly ignores, swallowing around him, bitter, as he comes, slow soft suction until Rousseau shoves him a little harder, curling protectively into himself, oversensitive.

Rousseau looks as messy as Ulf’s ever seen him, hair sticking up like he’d run his hands through it, clutched it so he wasn’t clutching Ulf’s, not that Ulf would have minded. Flushed as dark as Ulf could ever get him. Ulf had idly wondered how far it went, and now he’s got his answer, Rousseau a splotchy red down his chest, skin hot everywhere they’re touching. His mouth is dark, bitten lips, slightly ajar, and Ulf couldn’t have imagined how messy, broken apart he could look, how the image it would grab Ulf by the throat and hold.

He doesn’t look that way for long, seems to gather his reserves, gather back into reserved, shifting back so Ulf isn’t between his legs, which leaves Ulf feeling faintly bereft and very, very aware of the fact that he’s so hard that rubbing up against the sheets for a minute would get him off. 

“Lie down,” Rousseau says, slightly scratchy, and when Ulf gives him a look, “On your back.”

“You’re bossy,” Ulf says, just to see if it’ll make Rousseau roll his eyes. It does. Ulf feels rather accomplished.

He shifts up the bed, does what Rousseau asks, because it’s bound to turn out well. And it does. Ulf shouldn’t be surprised that Rousseau returns the favor--of course he’s not willing for there to be an imbalance. He shouldn’t be surprised by the way he goes about it, either, but he’d expected the same restrained, cautious, unpracticed mouth he’d expected to kiss him, and the fact he’d been wrong about the kiss hadn’t seem to derail his assumptions. 

Rousseau is vicious about it. Determined furrow of his brow like he’s facing a challenge (Ulf refuses to find it endearing), hard suction that borders on painful, but in a way Ulf likes. Jacking Ulf with the same rhythm of his mouth, so that it’s too much, too soon, and when Ulf comes it feels torn out of him, leaves him breathless, stunned, dick twitching a feeble objection when Rousseau pulls off. 

“Fuck,” Ulf says, finally, and Rousseau snorts. Ulf doesn’t care if Rousseau’s laughing at him or with him, he likes the sound. “C’mere?”

Rousseau does, which is slightly surprising, lets Ulf hook his fingers in the chain around his neck, lick the taste of himself out of his mouth, but when the kisses get sloppy, lazy with sleep, Rousseau pulls back.

“I should go,” Rousseau says, and he’s off the bed before Ulf’s processed the sentence. 

“You could stick around,” Ulf says, but he doesn’t really expect Rousseau to. Wants him to, but frankly he’s surprised Rousseau didn’t book it as soon as they both got off. That he’s in Ulf’s bed to start with.

Rousseau doesn’t respond, just reaches for his clothes, and Ulf totally shamelessly watches his ass as he tugs his underwear over them, because it is a great ass. Ulf squandered his opportunity with that ass, because he’s got no illusions here. They had to get this out of their systems, and fucking was the fastest way to go about it. Rousseau can go back to ignoring his existence tomorrow, and Ulf can try to do the same.

“Adam,” Ulf says, when Rousseau’s about to head out the door, still slightly rumpled looking, but shirt buttoned up to the throat, tie on, a professional again. He expects something like ‘Don’t call me Adam’, but Rousseau doesn’t say anything, just turns back to look at him, dark eyes and red mouth, a gorgeous picture of dishevelment that Ulf’s slightly depressed he’s not going to see again.

“What,” Rousseau says, when Ulf doesn’t immediately say anything, back to brusque, short. Back to normal.

“Get home safe,” Ulf says, and Rousseau nods once before he leaves. 

Ulf hears the front door click shut after a minute, and he knocks his head against the headboard, closes his eyes. 

It’s out of my system, he tells himself, pretends he sounds believable.


End file.
